


The Other Son

by isasolan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arafinwean bias, Big Brothers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Finarfin is the worst king ever, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Little Brothers, Mother-Son Relationship, Navel-Gazing, Teleri bias, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he is rehoused some time in the Second Age, Angrod must make amends with Finarfin, Eärwen and Finrod, in a world without Aegnor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Shibboleth genealogy, you know the drill: Orodreth is the son of Angrod, not of Finarfin. 
> 
> Arafinwë = Finarfin, Angaráto = Angrod, Náro/Ambaráto = Aegnor, Findaráto/Ingoldo = Finrod, , Nerwen = Galadriel, Lótë/Eldalótë = Edhellos, Artaresto = Orodreth. 
> 
> I would have wanted to use Linda/Lindar/Lindarin instead of Teler/Teleri/Telerin throughout the fic but I've left Telerin for clarity. 
> 
> This fic ties in with [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/896848), [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947001), [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1061134) and [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1061146) and with the [Arafinwë series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/48253) in general.

Arafinwë yawns, struggles to keep his eyes open. Wheat. Corn. Fruits. The harvest report is dreadfully dull, but he must place his seal on it to mark his approval. This absurdity is one of the bureaucratic remnants of his father's court that he has not been able to do away with. He must seal everything, approve of everything, rule over everything. Perhaps he could just place the seal at the bottom. Skip a bit. Be done with it. He raises himself on the chair to reach for the wax on the corner of his desk, but he never finishes the gesture.

 

"Your Highness..."

 

Arafinwë starts, nearly loses his balance out of guilt, and turns his head to the door.

 

The young page is shifting his feet, immensely awkward in his courtly attire. Wide-eyed. Fidgeting. "Your son is here," he says, with a waver in his voice.

 

Arafinwë sighs and sits back on the chair. "Why the surprise, child? It is not unusual to have Findaráto visiting," he says, keeping his tone soft to put him at ease. His son rarely leaves Eressëa these days, but it hardly calls for this... bewilderment.

 

"Nay, your Highness. Your  _ other _ son."

 

 

 


	2. Out of The Halls

"Would you like us to summon your family? Some Eldar prefer it this way. To have their kin waiting at the doors, as if returning from a long journey."

 

Angaráto does not answer at once. He is mesmerised by his own hands, by the feeling of flesh against flesh as he runs his fingers on his own skin. He closes his fists, then opens them again. Just as strong as he used to be. He grins at the Vanya helper, giddy like a child.

 

"Nay, that is not necessary. I would like to walk. To clear my head. To see what home is like now."

 

The helper smiles, fixes the robe on his shoulders. It is white and plain, unadorned. Sober. "Many say the same, too. Farewell, then. You are ready. May the stars guide your steps."

 

"I thank you." Angaráto clasps his hands with his, still fascinated by the warm contact. He squeezes them, and the Vanya winces. "Forgive me, I cannot gauge my strength well. I never have. But tell me, whither should I go? Which is the way? Has Aman changed much in all these years?"

 

The Vanya opens his mouth, hesitates. "I am not allowed to discuss this with you. But yes, child, it has changed."

 

He is old, perhaps older than his grandfathers, and he looks stern under his golden braids. But he was kind and patient under the arches outside The Halls. He taught him to walk again, to speak, to eat a bland paste that tasted of nothing. Yet he never said his name. Angaráto will miss him. He sighs.

 

"Tell me at least if my father lives in Tirion."

 

The helper pats him on the shoulder, pushes him to the door gently. "You must seek the city of the Ñoldor. Go now."

 

"Wait," Angaráto says, not moving forward. "What of my wife? We were rehoused together. Should I not wait for her?" Dearest Lótë, whose fëa never strayed far from his in The Halls.

 

"Eldalótë is in the gardens, still. Relearning the flowers. You may wait if you wish. But she could be long, Vána's Maiar are very fond of her, I hear."

 

That brings a smile to Angaráto's lips. Her long lost friends. Yes, that sounds like Lótë. "Never mind, then, we shall meet later. The wait will be sweeter. Farewell. And thank you again."

 

The sun is a dozen times brighter when he steps outside The Halls. Angaráto blinks, shields his eyes. Has it always been this bright? He cannot even remember. He stands, unmoving on the stairs, eyes closed, feeling the warmth crawling over his face, his limbs, his hands like a long string of kisses. The scent of fresh bread. The sounds of people talking. The ground under his feet. This. This is what he missed. This is why he wanted to live again.

 

The stairs end in an empty courtyard, but Angaráto knows from the stillness of the golden air that this is Valmar. They lived there for a few years there, when they were children. Enough for him to know his way around the city. Still, when he takes the first steps towards the sounds of people, he hesitates, and brings his fingers to his mouth to bite on his nails. Clean cut nails, perfectly and freshly remade. He bites them one by one. The plain robes signal what he is, a Rehoused. His hair would let him blend with the Vanyar, but not the colour of his skin, Teleri darker.

 

Perhaps he may still turn back. Ask the kind Vanya to call Arafinwë. Or Findaráto. Even Eärwen. The guilt of facing her is suddenly less dreary than walking alone in Valmar. He turns. The Gates are closed, sealed as if they never opened. Angaráto rests a hand on a wall for balance. Nay, he cannot do this. He isn't ready. At least The Halls stand on the edge of the city, away from the squares and the fountains. Angaráto circles the building, and breathes again only when he finds himself on the open road, away from people.

 

Peace smells of berries and late-blooming flowers. There is a disturbing comfort in finding that the land looks eerily similar to the one they once forsook, the same silvery trees, the same song whispered in the leaves. The same thin dust under his feet. The whistle of the crickets hidden in the meadows when Angaráto steps off the road. A scarab crawls on his toe, its eyes coppery like the setting sun. He bends to pick it up, cocooning it between his fingers until it flies off in protest.

 

A cart. The sound of a cart, just behind him on the road. A single horse, too.

 

Angaráto looks left and right, but it is too late to hide. He glances over his shoulder, his heart thumping loudly. The woman stops the horse, stares at him. A farmer. Very old, with the light of Cuivenien in her eyes. Her sinewy arms wrinkled like the wood of her cart.

 

"Well met," Angaráto croaks, his voice uneven since he is nervous. He has yet to remaster this.

 

She does not answer at once. She appraises his clothes, his looks, and then nods. "Indeed. And welcome back. Were you just released?" She speaks like a Noldo, and her eyes are grey and slightly slanted like theirs.

 

"Yes, just today," he answers, cautious.

 

"You look like it."

 

Angaráto lets out a throaty chuckle. He does wonder what he looks like. The kind Vanya had not given him a mirror, though he did say he ought to look the same as before. Without the scars. And a bit younger, perhaps. What does this farmer see in him that gives away he is a Rehoused? His gawkiness, probably. His cracking voice.

 

There was a hint of contempt in her voice, the same kind an older Elda might adopt when speaking to children. She must not know who he is. Few did, really. A younger son of a younger son. His father was rarely in Tirion. Most people knew Findaráto and Artanis, but not them. He and Náro were never in the spotlight.

 

"I am on my way to..." He almost says 'Tirion', but the Vanya did not call it by that name. "To the city of the Noldor. Ñoldor. Do you know the way?"

 

"I shall pass by it on my way," she says, and sighs as if annoyed. "Hop on, then. I'll drive you there. We shan't be long."

 

Angaráto almost refuses, wary of her brusqueness, but he does not know the way. He climbs on the cart. The back of it is full of deliciously scented berries. And apples. He faces ahead, sitting straight and trying not to mind the ripening fruits, though his mind and his nose turn to them again and again. Like a young boy.

 

"I thank you," he says when the horse starts moving.

 

"You don't look a Ñoldo. A mixed one, are you?"

 

Angaráto smiles, uneasy. "Yes." Quite. "Is the city no longer called Tirion?"

 

She looks at him strangely and loosens the reigns to be more at ease when speaking. She has tied her hair on top of her head in a bun, with wooden pins holding it in place aggressively. The frown of her brow creases so deeply her whole forehead is wrinkled.

 

"Nay," she says. "Not for many yéni now. The new king built a new city, not long after the Darkening. Vinyost, they call it."

 

Angaráto stares, too. Vinyost. A new city. "Who is the king now?"

 

She laughs, unkindly. "They don't tell you anything in there, do they?"

 

"No." He looks away from her, at the golden fields swirling under the wind. Perhaps it was a mistake to ride with her. "The helper said he was not permitted to."

 

"They say you can look at the Tapestries when you're in there. Find out what's happening out here."

 

He closes his eyes, the pain hollow in his chest. "You may if you wish. My brother did. I stopped looking after my son died." Náro had stared at the Tapestries, relentless, obsessed. Screaming in outrage when he saw what became of Lúthien. Angry. Betrayed by Findaráto. When Angaráto opens his eyes again, the woman is staring at him, as if expecting him to say more. Her eyes are piercing, hard. He shakes his head, frowns in return. "But I saw nothing of Aman." He almost adds, 'I dared not to,' but he does not want her to think him a kinslayer. "Who is king now?"

 

"Arafinwë," she answers, and then adds, as if any confusion were possible, "Arafinwë Finwion, who returned after the Slaying."

 

This was, of course, a possibility. Their father was the only one left, save for aunt Findis and her sons. He and Náro had discussed it one evening when they felt particularly anguished. Still, Angaráto gasps.

 

The farmer chuckles. "What? You don't believe me? Seems strange to you?"

 

He shakes his head. His father, a King! Gentle, soft-speaking Arafinwë, who shied from courtly nonsense. Who never had more than two or three helpers for the six of them. Who hid in Alqualondë or Valmar. Who wept along the March, too drowned in sorrow to lead his people on.

 

"I did not think he... He did not strike me as..."

 

He trails off, bewildered, and she nods.

 

"Neither did we, at first. Many of us were against his appointment. But who dared protest, in those dark days?" She tightens the reigns. "We didn't even know he'd returned, really. Only hearsay. He stayed in Finwë's Tower for so long most people left and went to Valmar. To rejoin those who had left first, just after the Darkening. Then he came out one day, and said he'd build a new city, for those who wished to follow."

 

A builder! A ruler! Angaráto is aware his mouth is hanging open, but he makes no effort to close it. "And did you follow?"

 

She shakes her head. "Not me. I never lived in the city, I've all I need in my farm. But many did. Most, I think. It's a fine city. Fitting for those who stayed. Women and children, mostly. Older Eldar. We had to learn it all anew. Without you."

 

Angaráto averts his eyes, staring at the silvery forest to his left and refusing the guilt she hands him. Most of his father's people had turned back with him after the Doom. None of them were smiths or builders. Those who followed them to Beleriand had helped build fortresses and structures that collapsed laughably under enemy fire. The pointlessness of it all stung the most, in The Halls.

 

"We were foolish," he says with a shrug. "Those who stayed were the wisest."

 

She shrugs, too. "Wise won't keep you fed. Only hard work."

 

He tries to imagine Arafinwë standing in the middle of a construction site, overseeing the building, or climbing on a ledge to give orders. He wrought a ship, once, in his youth, a beautiful swan, but Angaráto had never seen him at it. That their father could fish and sail was a remote fantasy they humoured but never challenged. But this woman has no reason to lie.

 

"We had to learn it all," she insists. "To build in the dark. To sow in the new Light."

 

So did we, Angaráto thinks, but he does not say it. They wrought realms out of the empty plains of Beleriand. From the caves. From the mountains. Great cities. Useless cities. Dorthonion, and Náro's smile in the Sun. No, he must not think of him. He must never think of him again.

 

"That's Vinyost over there, to the East."

 

She points at the dark silhouettes under the midday sun. Angaráto squints. Low buildings. No towers. No glitter. Yes, that is far more plausible. He bites his bottom lip. He has always been a Prince, but not the son of a King. And Arafinwë's last words to all his children were bitter, stinging, worse than a blow. There are many amends to be made. He had not realised how many until The Halls. The sweet scent of the fruits is making him a little dizzy.

 

"What is your name, then?" he asks his companion, glancing sideways towards her. She gave none, so he did not, either. But it feels deceiving to have her speak of Arafinwë and not say he is his son.

 

She moves her head from side to side, lips pursed as if displeased at the familiarity of the question. "There are some who call me Yavien," she says, slowly. A farmer known as Yavien. It must be an epessë. A fitting one. Her long, wrinkled limbs do remind him of a fruit-bearing tree. "And you?"

 

"Some called me Angamaite, in my youth. But my name is Angaráto." He smiles, sheepish. "Arafinwion."

 

"Well!" Yavien laughs instead of angering, and shakes her head. "Imagine that, I've been riding my old cart with a Prince thrice royal! I should've known, from the golden hair. But you look nothing like him. Unlike the eldest son."

 

An old hurt that never quite faded, Findaráto resembling their father. Angaráto bites his lip again. "They always said I looked like my mother, but for the hair."

 

"Ah, yes. The silver daughter of Olwë. But we've not seen much of her around here, after the Slaying."

 

He swallows. At least his mother lives... How often they had wondered what became of her? That felt the worst, leaving without knowing whether she was safe. Whether any of their Teleri kin were safe. Shutting their hearts forever, and marching on. He coughs, his throat tight.

 

"Which one are you?" she asks. "The third son?"

 

"The second."

 

"Well, you're just in time," Yavien says, visibly more at ease after learning who he is. "Tell him the harvest is going well. We should be finished early this year." She reaches back and hands him two apples, red and fragrant. At last! "Here. One for you, and one for him."

 

"I thank you," Angaráto whispers, and brings the fruit to his nose to savour the smell. It reminds him of Dorthonion, for some reason. The Edain often gave them such gifts. For your Lady, they'd say, and handed them in clumsily woven baskets. Sometimes they brought flowers, too. Lótë loved them for it.

 

He takes a cautious bite, but the juice spills down on his chin anyway. No, this tastes nothing like Beleriand. Exquisite, perfect. Sweet yet slightly bitter, soft to the bite, a little tangy. He barely holds back a moan of surprise, and Yavien chuckles next to him.

 

"Good?"

 

"Excellent," he says, and takes another bite. Valinóre fruits. He had never realised how much he missed them.

 

The road soon forks ahead, one arm stretching in the direction of the low buildings of Vinyost, the other disappearing between fields of green and gold. Yavien stops the horse, and Angaráto hops down, one apple in each hand. He has almost finished his. The other might not make it to his father's city intact.

 

He grins at her. "Well met," he says. "I shall not forget your kindness."

 

"You will," Yavien says, her frown returning. "Such is the way of Princes. Farewell now."

 

"Farewell," he calls out, after the horse steps forth. The cart groans on the slight unevenness of the road, the fruits rolling from side to side. Angaráto has the absurd urge to run after it, steal more of them. She was kind, for all her coldness.

 

Vinyost is a circular city, and all its paved roads are traced in straight lines with the largest, widest avenues converging into what seems to be a square. There are people on the streets. Children. Artisans. Female artisans, mostly. They stare at him, all of them, at his white robes, at his golden hair. Angaráto breezes through the streets, no more at ease than in Valmar, looking at no one, staring straight ahead.

 

There is no Palace, at least not in the strictest definition of the term. No High Tower. The largest building stands by the side of the square, its golden gates wide open to let everyone in. Like a King's house, a small house. It must be there. Angaráto steps inside. The guards gasp. Conversations quiet. An older Elda rises at the sight. He used to be an advisor in his grandfather's court, when he was a child.

 

"My lord!" he says, and motions for a young lad to fetch someone. "Welcome back!"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Finarfin moved out of Tirion and made a new city is [Rhaella](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaella/gifts)'s, who also came up with Vinyost ("new city") and Yavien (from fruit-bearing tree) ♥♥.


	3. Arafinwë

 

Angaráto runs a hand on the stone walls of the room he was left in. It is cool under the touch, pleasant. It was wrought with hope. No magnificent tapestries, few ornaments. The decorations are sober and scarce, and it looks an ordinary house, not a Palace. Very unlike the Tower of Finwë, that he used to admire as a boy. This is his father's throne room, he guesses from the silver chair at the end of the room. Not unlike the one they had in Dorthonion. Neither he or Náro had a penchant for theatrics, and one chair in an empty room, sometimes two, was all they needed to lord over their lands. Náro.

 

A flash of gold, when his father enters the room. Angaráto gasps. Arafinwë, tall and fair like he remembers him, and dressed like a King. Simple clothes, but kingly nonetheless. He is flustered, he ran. He is smiling. He is smiling! Angaráto's knees give a little when their eyes meet. He gasps again when his father pulls him into his arms, the embrace so fierce they both stagger.

 

"Father," he mumbles into his golden hair. The same scent. The smell of snuggling to his chest, of bedtime stories under the light of Telperion lulling him to sleep. "Dad!" His voice cracks.

 

"My beautiful boy," Arafinwë says, encircling him tighter, rubbing his back. "My darling, beautiful son."

 

"I am sorry," Angaráto says, the tears threatening to spill as he cannot find the words he long rehearsed in the loneliness of The Halls. "I am sorry I left. You were right, you were so right."

 

"Shh." His father strokes his hair, touches his lips to stop him from talking. Angaráto is a bit taller, but he cannot stand straight. He lets his forehead fall on Arafinwë's shoulder. "My beautiful boy," Arafinwë says again. "My Ango. At last you are returned to me. Too long has my house been quiet without the sound of your voice."

 

So Angaráto gives in, and cries.

 

They sit somewhere on the floor, clumsy and awkward. They are too tall for this, but Arafinwë pulls him closer anyway, dries his tears even though he too is crying. Angaráto rests his head on his lap, snuggles closer, closes his eyes. He had missed this. How he had missed this! His very fëa had longed for his father's touch. He had feared to find cold disappointment in his eyes, like the last time they spoke, instead of this genuine, unassuming love.

 

"When your brother was returned, I soon started longing for you, too," Arafinwë whispers, in the same soothing voice he's always had. "I had not realised I could see any of you again. I wanted to see my Ango."

 

Náro. He will never see Náro. Arafinwë's naïve delight is but a painful reminder of the secret he bears. Angaráto is now his youngest son, since Náro will never come after him, and Arafinwë's house will remain incomplete for all the Ages to come. Should he tell him? How to tell him that, when he is so happy? Nay, Angaráto cannot.

 

"I wanted to see you, too," he says, his voice thick with tears, unrecognisable. "And ask for your forgiveness."

 

Arafinwë holds him tighter. "I have none to give, my child. I begrudge you nothing."

 

"Truly?" Angaráto sits up to look at him better. His father smiles at him, despite the tears. "We forsook you. And mum. We went on when you asked us to turn with you."

 

There is a shadow of pain in Arafinwë's eyes, and his smile wavers. He shakes his head. "You did what your heart bid you to. It was not my place to command you to turn."

 

"It was. I wish I had."

 

Angaráto looks away, his sight blurred by the tears. He thinks of the Ice, of the Dark. Of the poisoned diplomacy in Beleriand. Of the long-standing enmity with the Fëanorions. Not even the meadows of Dorthonion, the mountains, the work of his hands were worth this rift in their House. It certainly was not worth it to lose Náro over a mortal. To have his wife killed like a dog. To have Findaráto tortured. His son slain. His granddaughter defiled by orks. He'd almost gone mad looking at The Tapestries.

 

Arafinwë touches his cheek gently, to force him to look at him. "Yet you have returned now," he says. "I will not say we may forget, but we may at least mend what was broken. Can we not? My dear, dearest boy."

 

Angaráto nods, numbed by the soothing voice.

 

"Come, let's get you clothed into something more like you."

 

The guest room they go to is impersonal, unadorned. The bedsheets straight and untouched. No one has slept in here for years, Angaráto guesses. Standing undressed before his father reminds him of happier days, before Náro was born. When they dwelt in Alqualondë, and Angaráto was Arafinwë's youngest boy. The fleeting memory brings a smile to his lips.

 

"Here," Arafinwë says, pulling a green tunic out of a chest. "This should fit you."

 

He helps him into it, sliding it down over Angaráto's neck as if he were indeed that young child of long ago. But the sleeves cling to his biceps too tightly, and the cut around the shoulder is too narrow. And it falls much too high. This was made for a shorter, much more slender person. Findaráto, probably.

 

"It doesn't fit," he says, unable to stop a pout and feeling in every way like a child.

 

"Mm," Arafinwë says, clearly following his thoughts as he tries to fix it over his shoulders. "Your mum wove it for Findaráto after his own release, but she forgot he dislikes dressing in green. Do not look so crestfallen, child. We will make some more for you, now that you have returned. This will do for now, yes? Would you like some breeches, too?"

 

They too are narrow, around his upper thighs and over his calves. How slender has Findaráto become? Angaráto walks over to the mirror to study his reflection. Golden hair falling in straight locks over his blue Teler eyes. No hard lines on his bland, round face. He looks like his younger self, the one who left Aman. Not the broken one who died in Beleriand. No wonder the Ñoldor recognise him. He touches his face, then meets Arafinwë's eyes in the reflection. Would his father give his love so freely to his unrestored, fey self?

 

"I've changed," he tells him. "I didn't look like this when I died."

 

Arafinwë places a hand over his shoulder, and squeezes it. "We all changed, my boy. I have, too."

 

Angaráto turns to face him, his throat tight again. Arafinwë flashes him a sad smile. He does look older, worn-out. His hair is strange, too. It is much shorter than he ever wore it, and it no longer curls. Its waves fall nearly flattened just under his chin. It's eerie how much it makes him look like Náro, who was unlike either of their parents but also like both at the same time. Angaráto's gaze stops on his father's neck, where a long scar crosses it from side to side. His eyes widen. What kind of wound was that? It looks nearly fatal.

 

"I am unsure how much you know," Arafinwë says, stepping closer and rubbing over his scar. He lifts up a sleeve to reveal another on his arm, very briefly. Enough to startle Angaráto. That one too is deep, blackened like with skin-ink. The kind of scar ork poison would leave. He and Náro were covered in such lines by the end of their days. "We went to war in Beleriand. I lead our people to battle." His father swallows visibly. "I... I nearly did not make it back."

 

"You were in a battle?" Angaráto repeats, his tone raised in disbelief. Disrespectfully so. He feels his face warming. How much of his father does he truly know? How much has he been mistaken about, how much has he underestimated?

 

Arafinwë laughs, however. "I was! And we won. I am the first one surprised when I tell it, believe me." His face darkens, but he does not break eye-contact. "It was dreadful."

 

"It was dreadful for us, too," Angaráto says, maybe too defensively. "Every day. We settled very close to Angband."

 

"I know. I saw the... the ruins of it." Arafinwë's jaw tenses, and the scar is even more visible. Angaráto shudders, averts his eyes. "I was sorry, child. Crushingly sorry I was not there with you."

 

"You'd have..." His voice cracks from how biting his sentence is, yet he still finishes it. "You'd have been useless there."

 

He sees the pain so clearly on his father's face that he regrets it at once. Arafinwë blinks, takes a step back. Jaw tight, brow furrowed. Angry. Angaráto has not been back for a day and he has angered him already.

 

"Is that what you truly think?" Arafinwë asks, his voice not cold but strained with a fire he does not bother hiding.

 

"Nay," Angaráto says at once. "It is not. I spoke in haste. Forgive me."

 

His father shakes his head, still agitated. "In haste, perhaps, but you did think it. I might have been useless there, I agree. I probably would have. Not even Findaráto withstood the diplomatic nightmare. Yet if I could have... if in any way I could have died in your stead, or spared you or your brother - both your brothers - your final fate, I would have. I would have, Angaráto."

 

This is the moment where Angaráto ought to nod and drop the matter. Instead, he says, "But you did not."

 

Arafinwë sighs, and looks away. "I did not. This is something I must live with until the end of days, whether my children forgive it, or not."

 

Angaráto looks away. His father said, earlier, that he had no forgiveness to give, begrudging nothing. It's true, is it not. There is no point arguing whose wrongs were worse. Or who needs to forgive the most. He walks back to the bed to sit on it, unwilling to bear the sadness of Arafinwë's eyes.

 

"It isn't your children's place to judge you, when your choice was the right one," he says, staring down at his own hands.

 

The bed shifts when Arafinwë sits by him. "Isn't it?" he asks, still gentle, still patient, and Angaráto can no longer bear the guilt.

 

"No. There is naught to forgive." He grabs his father's hand and brings it to his lips to kiss it. "I wish I were a worthier son."

 

Arafinwë pulls him into an embrace again, tight and crushing. "But you are, Ango. You are." He cradles his head against him, kisses the top of his head. "You have always been." His fingers thread into his hair, forming thin braids. Teler braids. "Your brother was so easy, when he was a child. At times it felt we had begotten a grown son. But you? When you came along, I felt a father for the first time."

 

Angaráto lets out half a snort, half a chuckle. "I'm not sure that is a compliment."

 

"It is! You loud, stubborn, troublesome boy. Who else speaks their heart like you? For all the times you ruffled me I saw how dull it would be without you. All I had missed in my own childhood you brought to me. Nay, I would not have had you any other way."

 

There was nothing to do in The Halls but think, and remember, and regret. The peace and quiet favoured understanding, and it took whatever wisdom he gained in the long Wait to put his boyish feelings into words, long-forgotten grievances that still sting. His father was often cross with him, growing up, for all of Angaráto's mischief. He thought it a stain on his childhood, since his older brother did nothing of the sort.

 

"When I was child," he starts, then takes a deep breath. It feels like a confession. "I often wished I had you all to myself. No Findo, no Náro, no Nerwen. Just you and me."

 

There was always a younger sibling in his father's arms, demanding his immediate attention. Or perfect, brilliant Findaráto with marvellous endeavours that could not wait.

 

Arafinwë sighs. "I know that," he says, and kisses the top of his hair. "I could tell. And I tried to, but there was never enough room, never enough time. Ambaráto was born too soon after your birth. Of that the fault is ours, ours alone. We should have waited more. But I think some good came out of that, in a way. You were much happier after his birth. Were you not?"

 

"I was." Angaráto's child self used to cry so much more, before. Náro became his true companion, like a twin. His partner in crime. The light of his childhood. He smiles, though he rather feels like weeping. His brother won't ever return, and he cannot tell Arafinwë.

 

"You have me all to yourself now. Years too late, maybe, but you do," his father says, and takes his hand as he rises. "Come. I saved something for you, all these years."

 

Angaráto rises too, and does not let go of his hand. He follows him through the darkened corridors of the would-be Palace, running his other hand on the walls to soak himself in the simple architecture. There cannot be more than twenty rooms in such a small building. How very Arafinwë to make himself a Palace on his own terms, breaking tradition and forgoing any standards. His father always lived this way, more Vanya than Ñoldo, more scholar than Prince, Eärwen's husband before Finwë's son.

 

"Where is mum?" Angaráto asks as they step into his father's study. Yavien implied she was absent, that she had been absent for long. "She does not dwell with you?"

 

"Mm," Arafinwë non-answers, opening a drawer under his desk and rummaging in it. "She is away today, but she does dwell here. Most of the time. Now. "

 

"Now? What does that mean?"

 

Arafinwë sighs, and stops looking in his drawer to meet his gaze. The hand he places on the table trembles a little. "We were estranged for many years. For as long as the First Age lasted. She could not forgive me for... for..." He makes a vague gesture, and Angaráto stares, not following, but unwilling to ask. "All is well between us now, however. I've sent word of your return. She should be here soon."

 

Angaráto sinks down on a chair, crushed by this revelation. Estranged! His parents! Unthinkable... Not once had he or his brothers and sister imagined this would be a consequence of the March. But Eärwen, so proud, so fierce... of course she would not forgive Arafinwë. Would she even forgive her children? Her son? He swallows, squirms on the chair. She'll not spare him her wrath, if she resents him. His mother's temper is different from his father's.

 

"Ah," Arafinwë says, and smiles. "Here it is. Do you remember?"

 

He pulls out a little horse out of his drawer, so unexpectedly that Angaráto draws a blank at first, not understanding. A toy, a boy's toy, very finely carved. Fëanáro-like craftsmanship. Oh. Oh, oh. He feels the blood rising to his cheeks, and his face burns.

 

"You still have this?" he says, so embarrassed he would like to hide his face in his hands.

 

Arafinwë laughs, squeezes Angaráto's hand. "I found it in Tirion after I returned, and brought it here with me. I am not sure why. It reminded me of you, I suppose. In some way I hoped I would return it to you one day, against all odds."

 

How Angaráto had wanted this toy! He went as far disobeying a direct order from his father to ask it of his Fëanárion cousins, and Arafinwë had taken it from him as a punishment. An enormous tragedy, for the child he used to be. He laughs too.

 

"You were a bit evil," he says, not quite in jest. "I cried a river that day."

 

"Believe me, I was not happy to do it."

 

Arafinwë strokes the little horse's mane, then slides it closer to Angaráto. He takes it, turns it in his hands. Yes, such a toy would make a boy go mad with want, with so many details, so many features. But it had driven the lesson home. He had stayed away from the Fëanárion cousins until he was old enough to face them without his temper flaring too much. In Beleriand, however...

 

"They became fey," he says, placing the toy back on the desk, and meeting Arafinwë's sad glance. "I never forgave them. Findaráto urged us to, but we... we never truly did. They said we were your children too, once. Not just mum's."

 

His father shakes his head, the pain darkening his grey eyes. "I saw them. The last of them. Maitimo and Makalaurë, before they were lost. Utterly broken, mad. And I was grieved for them, despite how much they wronged us."

 

"They were long gone by then," Angaráto says, and shakes his head too.

 

He does not want to know what became of them. He does not want to care. Yet he cannot remain in ignorance forever, not when he is among the living again. He ought to read, at least, how the First Age ended. But not yet. Not yet.

 

"I met a farmer of yours, on the way here," he adds, eager to change the subject. "She gave me two apples, but I'm afraid I ate yours. She sends word that the harvest is well under way."

 

Arafinwë sits back on his chair with a groan. "This harvest! I tire of hearing about it. I have yet to put my seal on this report. Your return gives me the perfect excuse to delay reading it."

 

Angaráto leans closer to glance at the papers covering his father's desk. Detailed lists of the harvest, grains, fruits, pages and pages with no end in sight. He laughs. "I see you are not so fond of kinging, after all. Náro was the same. I did not mind it."

 

The knot in his throat, again, after saying Náro's name. His brother could never sit still for long, let alone read missives, or organise the matters of the land. 'Those are your duties, Ango,' he'd say, 'I command your armies.' Náro laughing, the wind in his hair. Náro's mad grin, whenever he held a spear. Náro.

 

"Then you could help me, if you like it so much," Arafinwë teases, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "It would make your return twice a blessing for me."

 

"What of Findaráto? He does not help you?"

 

His father stands and goes around the desk to stand closer to him. "Your brother does not live here." He strokes Angaráto's hair, a look of wonder in his eyes as if still disbelieving his presence there. "He has some lands in Eressëa where he rules over some Exiles, and some Rehoused."

 

Ah, yes, that does sound like something that Findaráto would do. "How many have been Rehoused?" he asks, holding the hand with which his father is stroking him. He laces their fingers together.

 

"Few. Very few. It is said that perhaps not a tenth of those in The Halls. Findaráto was one of the first out. I am twice blessed." Twice, but not thrice. Angaráto swallows, yet Arafinwë does not seem to notice his anguish. "Shall I send word to your brother, too? He would set sail at once, I am certain of it."

 

"Nay, don't. I... I would rather visit myself. To see what his lands are like."

 

To speak in private, without interruptions. But not until he regains full mastery of his speech and of his thoughts. Angaráto has much to say, and arguing with Findaráto has never been easy. Let alone arguing about Náro.

 

"Very well. But come now, you must be hungry if you only ate those apples. Shall we sup while we wait for your mother?"

 

 

 

 


	4. Eärwen

Facing his mother is both easier and harder than Arafinwë.

 

Eärwen is in every way a silver wave when she crashes on him in the gardens, embracing Angaráto with a fierceness that knocks the breath out of him, irresistible, unstoppable. She does not let him stand from the bench, and rocks him against her, mumbling nonsense petnames into his hair. She then steps back to look at him with a critical eye.

 

"Look at you," she says. "How are you? Have you eaten? Who dressed you in this wretched thing?"

 

Her eyes dart to Arafinwë. Angaráto watches, uneasy, how his parents lock gazes. Then, to his immense relief, Eärwen bends down to press a brief kiss to his father's mouth in greeting. All is well between them, Arafinwë said. Angaráto does not know why this matters so much, but he lets out a short laugh. He has not heard Telerin spoken in ages.

 

"I didn't make that tunic for him, of course it doesn't fit. I'd have brought clothes with me if I'd known he didn't have any," she chides, giving a light smack on Arafinwë's arm.

 

"Peace! I sent someone to Tirion, to see if any old ones of his may be found in our old quarters." Arafinwë slides a hand around his son's shoulder. "But they might be dusty, out of fashion."

 

"I don't care for that," Angaráto says, a little stunned to be talking about fashion at a time like this.

 

"But I do," Eärwen says. "My son is the son of a King now."

 

Her eyes meet Arafinwë's again, and a shadow clouds over them. Something in his father's fëa too sobers up, and Angaráto's heart stops. How trying it must be for her, this new arrangement. The wife of the King. Of the King of the Ñoldor. At least it is not in Tirion they live together. He sees Arafinwë reach for her hand, stroke her fingers as if soothing her, and he feels uncomfortably out of place.

 

"Come inside, Ango," Eärwen says, breaking eye contact with her husband to smile at him. "I best get started right away."

 

The bedchamber of his parents opens onto a terrace where the sun forms star patterns on the tiles. Not unlike the one they had in Alqualondë. Only the sea is missing here. Arafinwë must have built this when he did not know whether Eärwen would come, and yet it is so very her. Every corner of this room was thought for her, every detail, every garnish of the walls. There are even seashells on the railings of the balcony. How unsettling. Angaráto clears his throat, stares down at his hands.

 

"They must do this on purpose," his mother says, marking the cloth with her measuring thread. "Your measures are just the same."

 

She wove sails, like most Teleri women, but also robes and tunics for her children. Even for Nerwen, though she hated wearing gowns. Arafinwë told him his sister lived, but would not yet return. That was hardly a surprise. Nerwen was the only one who truly made the effort to make herself a new life in Beleriand, away from the perfidy of their cousins. The bravest one. The wisest one.

 

Angaráto clears his throat again when he realises he has not answered. "I told dad, I wasn't always like this. Not towards the end. It's a mercy, I suppose, to be returned to the fairer self."

 

She frowns, but says no more. Her fine scissors make no sounds as she cuts the cloth into the shape of a tunic. A silver one. Angaráto watches her thread a needle and still does not know what to do with his hands. He did not expect silence. But then again, he had also not expected his father to be so talkative. What can he even say? Even something innocuous like 'how is everybody?' is monstrously inappropriate. He ought to apologise to her. He rehearsed that in The Halls, too, but he cannot recall how he phrased it.

 

"I met your uncle," he says at last, when Eärwen stitches around a corner.

 

She glances up at him, then back down at her needle again. "What was he like?" she asks, though her tone is too detached to put him at ease.

 

Angaráto thinks of Elu in his caverns, and wonders why he thought this was a good conversation starter. 'I marvel at you, son of Eärwen', he'd told Findaráto. Proud, angry, distrustful. Dark.

 

"In every way unlike grandfather," he says, and sighs. "But he welcomed us, for some time. At the very beginning." Eärwen places her needle down, giving him his full attention, and Angaráto feels flustered. "Findaráto sent me to him. The first to enter his realm. Because I looked the most like you."

 

His mother smiles, a little sadly. "Your brother said nothing of this."

 

"He didn't?"

 

Eärwen shakes her head. Angaráto starts. He had imagined Findaráto recounting everything in excruciating detail. But then again, he would not, would he. Would he tell her all the wrongs, too?

 

"I lied," he says. "I told him nothing of what happened in.. in..." He cannot say Alqualondë, not in front of her, he cannot. "...before we left. I was afraid he'd throw me out of his kingdom if I did. Or that the Ñoldor would begrudge it when I returned to them."

 

Eärwen stiffens, and stabs the cloth with her needle again.

 

"Back then, I thought it was not my place to tell him, but later... after I died. I saw... I saw I should have told him the truth. But I could not. Findaráto sent me. He never... You know he never thought highly of me. I did not want to blunder. To... disappoint him, I suppose."

 

She shakes her head. "I think you are wrong. Ingoldo does think highly of you, even if you cannot see it. He would not have sent you otherwise."

 

Angaráto thinks of his brother's worried eyes when he told him he would be the one going to Menegroth. 'You might remind him of Olwë with your Teler looks,' he'd said. His appraisal of Angaráto's diplomatic skills was a 'Please don't ruin this, Ango' before he sent him on his way.

 

"It was worthless in the end. The Fëanárions resented my going." He sees his mother flinching at their mention, and stutters a little. "He, uh, he, Elu, he found out anyway. I did speak up, later. When it was too late. I told him all."

 

Eärwen's deep sea eyes meet his. "And what is 'all', child? What did you say? Did you tell him you marched on, when your people were killed?"

 

"I did." Angaráto swallows, blinking before the bitter sting of her words. "I did, mum."

 

She shakes her head, violently. "What were you thinking, Ango? I never understood. Your father never said. How could you march on?"

 

"I don't know." That is the pure truth, though it is laughably inadequate. Nobody knew anything. Everyone was afraid. At some point, they marched on to find Fëanáro and have him answer for his crimes. That was until they realised the sons of Ñolofinwë too had a hand in the massacre. "I don't know," he repeats. "In Beleriand I lied awake for hundreds of nights asking myself how and why. And in The Halls, I asked myself the same. I still have no answer, mum. We were not thinking straight. We were not thinking anything."

 

"You should have turned," she says, her voice wavering with tears. "You should have turned when your father did."

 

"We should have," Angaráto admits, and then he cannot hold his tongue. "But would that really make a difference? You did not forgive him. You were estranged for hundreds of years. For nearly as long as we were in Beleriand. He built all of this without you."

 

She pales, and he hates this situation. "Do not speak of what you do not know, child!" she snaps.

 

"What do I not know? I too was married. There were times my own wife forsook me for how wretched I'd become in the endless siege. She was afraid of me, of what I'd become. Because of Náro. With him I was driven to... to violence and to fighting and to relentless killing." He shakes his head. No. It is his mother who would not understand. "Yet she came back. Every single time I begged her to return, she did. She lived with me on the edge of danger until the day that we died."

 

Angárato stops speaking, out of breath. He did not mean to lecture her. How dare he. They are his mother and father. Can he even presume to compare? Their marriage is not so much older than his own. Close to one hundred and fifty years older.

 

Yet Eärwen does not look angry. She sets her stitching down and lets out a shaky sigh. She tilts her head, lips pursed. "Orks?" she asks. He looks at her blankly, and she adds, "It was orks that you killed?"

 

The alternative makes him shudder. He is no kinslayer, does she not know that? "Yes, orks. We fought orks. The same kind dad fought. Balrogs, too, on the last day. Even a dragon." He smiles, though he is certain it is a grimace instead. "Not for very long, though."

 

His mother leans closer, to touch his face. One hand on each cheek. "Even then, Ango. You do not know. You do not know what it was like. I had to stand in my father's throne room and hear my husband's kin being declared unwelcome. My husband being called a murderer. My children being called turncoats. "

 

"We are no such things. Neither of us. Mum! Don't you know this? In Beleriand we were always your children. They wanted us to forget that, for politics. To blend in more with the Ñoldor. We never had. We never did."

 

This was a bottomless well of confusion, when they were children. Findaráto always felt effortlessly Ñoldo, happy amongst the books and the lore, and a little bemused amongst the Teleri's simpler pleasures. Angaráto hated Tirion at first, and cried and begged to return home. Aikanáro felt at ease with the Teleri, but had loved their father's city and their boisterous cousins when he was grown, and it was because of him that Angaráto grew fond of those too, in the end. Artanis was born in Valmar, and was a Vanya in mind, a Ñoldo in temper, and a Teler in customs. Nay, they never blended. They never wanted to.

 

"But I was not in Beleriand, my child." The tears welling up in Eärwen's eyes make them look even more like the sea. Angaráto's own eyes sting. "How could I know? I only knew that you left me, all of you. And nearly a thousand years later, neither of you has ever said why."

 

"I wish I could." His fingers wipe the tears that have rolled down her cheeks. "I am so sorry I have no good answer for you. But I regret it, mum. I've lived and I've died, and I regret it to this day. I should have stayed with you. I should have fought for you. Will you not forgive me?"

 

"I already have," she says, her voice breaking, and she pulls him into her arms.

 

This was the only thing that made Angaráto less homesick, as a child in Tirion. How Eärwen's arms always had the same salty edge of a warm wave dragging him to the shore.

 

"We missed you", he says against her. "All of us. I thought of you every day, of how much I wanted to see you again one day. Knowing I never would, unless I died. And even then, I did not think I'd be rehoused."

 

"I did not think it possible, either." She holds him tighter. "I missed you too. Especially you. My Ango."

 

He closes his eyes and kisses her face, then presses his nose to her neck. "Where is home for me, now? Am I unwelcome in grandfather's ream?"

 

She threads her fingers in his hair, thin and straight like hers. "Home is where you want it to be. Here with us. With your brother. Anywhere you want to live. My father will not refuse to receive you. He received Ingoldo, after all. Though he has only been there once."

 

He tries to imagine what Findaráto said, that time. A formal apology, likely. Something moving and solemn that Olwë could not disregard. Angaráto does not have that talent. He might draw a blank again, and say nothing worthy of praise.

 

"How many... how many..."

 

"Died?" his mother completes, and pulls back from their embrace to look at him. He nods, finding it hard to breathe. "Too many, child. Too many. Nearly all the mariners. Many fishermen. My nephews. Two of my brothers."

 

Angaráto closes his eyes briefly, letting out a shaky breath. His cousins. His uncles. "Which ones?"

 

"Only Alparon and Telepsil lived, and their sons with them," Eärwen tells him, looking to the side and no longer at him. "It was never the same. Though Linue was returned to us, not long ago. That's why I was away when your father sent word. I wanted to see him again."

 

Growing up, he and Náro had interacted far more with Eärwen's brothers rather than Arafinwë's. If anyone had told Angaráto he would have to choose one set of uncles over the other, and that he would choose Ñolofinwë, he would have thought that person mad. He would never. Yet he had.

 

"I hope they will at least listen to me," he says with a sigh. "I lack Findo's eloquence."

 

Eärwen touches his face. "You know that is not important to us. We value earnest words much more than any structured discourse. Such is our way. And you have always been one of us in that matter. Haven't you?"

 

Angaráto nods, his face warming a little. If being unable to hold his tongue is a Teler trait, then yes, he is one of them. His outspokenness had not been well received in Tirion. Or in Beleriand. He isn't made for courtly matters, not in the Ñoldorin way at least. Only in Dorthonion had he found the freedom to lord over as he pleased, however he pleased. With Náro's support.

 

Náro.

 

He ought to tell Eärwen, too, that she only has two sons. But his mother moves away from him and takes up her stitching again, with a smile on her face. No. He cannot.

 

"I shall take you to my father's, if you so wish. The sooner the better, I think," she says.

 

"Yes," he agrees, rubbing his sweaty palms over his thighs. Eärwen made him remove everything again to measure him. It is warm enough for it to be comfortable. "I could sail to Eressëa from there. To see Ingoldo."

 

"Ah, Ingoldo. He was so restless here with us. He wanted to do great things again, as usual. Your father was sad when he left." Angaráto frowns. Arafinwë said nothing of the sort. He perks up, but Eärwen does not continue that line of conversation. "There aren't many boats sailing there in this season, but you may catch one every other day or so. If you don't feel like sailing yourself," she teases.

 

Angaráto laughs. "I can barely speak, mum. I don't think I could sail now and not drown in the attempt."

 

"You were always wretched sailors, the lot of you. You the worst of all."

 

She's still teasing. That is not true. Angaráto was the best one, though not as skilled as a Teler. Náro was the worst one. He never had the patience to learn the names of the ropes, to study the wind, to follow the stars. Even their grandfather gave up on ever teaching him. 'What does it matter?' he'd say. 'Ango will sail me.'

 

They tried to get the boats back, when they rejoined the hosts of the murderers. If only to sail them. To have them manned by unbloodied hands who at least had some skill. They had nothing short of laughed in their faces. His jaw tenses, and Eärwen mistakes this as him taking offence of her words.

 

"I jest, my little one. Your sailing always made me proud."

 

He smiles to appease her and squeezes her free hand. "I know, mum."

 

"Stand straight now," she says and rises too to measure the tunic to his chest. "This will fit you quite right. What do you say, Ango? Are you ready to dress like a Prince?"

 

He hesitates, then takes her hand. "I've always been a Prince. Thrice a Prince, some farmer told me on the way here. This changes nothing, does it? For us. For you."

 

Eärwen finishes dressing him, not answering at first. She dusts some loose threads from the shoulders, straightens it around his biceps. Yes, a much better fit. Angaráto moves his arms meekly, letting her adjust whatever she needs. He knows nothing of fabric, but even then he can tell she chose an exquisite one, silver, embroidered in gold. Fit for a Prince, indeed.

 

"No one has ever dared to call me their Queen here," she says at last, resting a hand on his chest, her eyes fierce like a storm over the waves. "I certainly hope they never will."

 

 

 


	5. Findaráto

 

Angaráto leans on the balcony to watch the young child play, his golden hair breathtaking as he dances in the sun. His laughter and his childish songs brighten the gardens. They brighten everything. His brother is blessed.

 

He somehow imagined Findaráto would build a cavern palace again, but instead his halls are built upon a hill for all to see, even at a distance. His Palace is bright and lively, unlike darkened, practical Nargothrond. And a child is in his House. A son. Angaráto thought of Findaráto as childless for so long that it is entirely foreign to see him as a father now.

 

Long ago, Angaráto was the first of Arafinwë's children to add a grandson onto his house. How proud he'd been then! His Artaresto. Broken Artaresto, who would not yet return. Who might not return in a very long time.

 

And this child is his first nephew. The only nephew he'll ever have, unless Nerwen overcomes her reluctance to beget children. Náro never had children. He never will, now. What kind of children would he have fathered, had he not been denied love? What would they have looked like? Would they have had his brother's golden hair? Would they have been more Elda, or more mannish in their mannerisms? His father told him of Eärendil, Itarillë's son who now sails the skies with a Silmaril on his brow. Angaráto saw him at a distance on a strikingly clear evening. Both Man and Elf, perfectly blended together and yet retaining the uniqueness of each kindred under the light of the Jewel. This brief glimpse of the golden haired Half-Man is the only hint of what Náro's children might have looked like, had he married Andreth.

 

And what could they have become? Eärendil sailed to save Arda, spoke for both kindred, ended the bitter war. Could Náro's children not have been as mighty as him? Could they not have fought in the War, uniting Men and Elves under a single banner, fearless leaders, wise, golden haired, the proud descendants of the House of Arafinwë and of Bëor? Dorthonion might not have fallen. Their people could have fled in time from the fire. From death. Even he and Náro. Maybe they would not have died.

 

He does not like thinking of dying. They said, in The Halls, that he ought not spend too much time fixated on that. The healing his fëa received should be enough to overcome the grief. Yet every time Angaráto thinks of Náro, he wonders if he should not have stayed in The Halls a little longer. The pain is still too raw. He tries to focus on his nephew in the gardens, but horribly, he finds that he resents his gentle cheer.

 

Angaráto turns to face his brother, begging his mind to turn to other matters. Findaráto is standing behind him, leaning on a column of the terrace and drinking wine in a silver cup. He looks disconcertingly younger than the last time Angaráto saw him. It strikes him, at the sight of his brother's eerie beauty of their first youth, how the sorrows of Arda forced their bodies to age. To lose most of the light of their fëar. How fey they'd become in Beleriand! Perfect, flawless, charming Findaráto dearly loved by all. Angaráto had always paled in comparison. Only Náro had not thought so.

 

His brother smiles when he feels Angaráto's eyes on him. "We shall have a great feast for your return," he says, merrily, and offers him a cup of wine.

 

Findaráto, merry? Of course Findaráto can be merry, or was merry in the past, but it has been so long since those times that Angaráto is unaccustomed to it. In truth, he is utterly unaccustomed to everything, even to his brother's presence, in his blue tunic delicately embroidered with gold and his silver circlet on his brow. A Prince. A Lord. He could even fancy himself a King, if he so wished. Eressëa political matters are complicated.

 

"Please do not trouble yourself with a feast," he says, and sips on the wine, absently. Too sweet for his taste.

 

"Come now, of course I will. My little brother dearly loved is returned to us."

 

Angaráto chokes on the wine and coughs. It is almost funny to hear him say that. He sets his cup down. "Actually, you might as well. It's the only feast you will throw, isn't it. The only brother who'll return."

 

Findaráto's eyebrows shoot up, and he too chokes on his wine. He tries to compose his face into a calmer expression, but the alarm is so great he cannot truly mask it.

 

"Yes," Angaráto goes on. "I've come to talk about Náro."

 

Findaráto looks down at his cup, and drinks all in it in one gulp. His hand trembles when he sets it down on his table. "He will not return, will he?"

 

"No."

 

There. He said it. To Findaráto, who already knew. But he said it. The weight on his heart, however, does not lessen. His brother refills the cup calmly, but does not drink from it. He leaves it on the table, as if weighing his words, but he says nothing.

 

"We wondered, you know," Angaráto says, not bearing the silence and speaking in disjointed sentences. "In The Halls. When we saw the Tapestries. When we saw you and Lúthien. And Beren. We, we wondered why. How could you, Findaráto!"

 

His brother flinches, looks away. "I had to," he says. "I had to."

 

"Why? Because you swore?"

 

"Because I had to."

 

Where is Findaráto's eloquence? Angaráto had expected more explanations. Arguing. Crushing rhetoric. Yet his brother runs a hand on the rim of the cup, and says nothing. His face, at least, looks pained. At least.

 

"I remember your words. He went to see you, didn't he. He went to you for advice. He told me what you said. He listened to you." Angaráto raises his voice to a falsetto, to mimic Findaráto's more melodic pitch. "You told him, 'A union between the two kindred entails too many unforeseen matters that we cannot comprehend, be it for a higher purpose or for ill designs'. Did you not?"

 

Findaráto's jaw clenches. "I might have."

 

"You did. You said she'd grow old. You said she'd grow bitter, and Náro would be forever bereft. You advised against it."

 

"I advised nothing he did not want to hear. Those thoughts came from his heart alone. I merely made him aware of them."

 

"No, no, no. Don't you dare say that. You have no idea how much he loved her. How mad he became. How on the day he died, his thoughts were still for her. I pulled him from death more times than I can count, yet in the end I could not stop him. I saw him dying. Our Náro, Ingoldo! He died without her, and he is now bound to a pointless, childless, loveless vow that will keep him from us forever!"

 

"That is not my doing! What are you accusing me of, exactly?" Findaráto flails his arms a little, his face flustered. Making him lose his cool was never this easy, in the past.

 

Angaráto steps closer. He was taller than Findaráto, before. He notes with some fierce vindication that he still is. "Of dying for a stranger's happiness, when you argued against your brother's."

 

"He was no stranger. His father saved me, when I was doomed to die. He was one of your men. Without his help I'd have not lived a day more. To avenge you. To look after what was left of your people. Your son, your grandchildren."

 

"Náro begged you to sing songs for him when he was a baby. He fell asleep in your arms. He stood by you in the Darkness. He helped you walk on the Ice. He held the siege for you, so you would have your precious peace in your little realm in the South."

 

Angaráto can think of a hundred more moments between him and Náro. They shared a bed, when they were children. Sometimes, too, when they were grown. Naró saved him from ambushes. He saved Náro from everything, stupid reckless child. They wrought Dorthonion together, stone by stone. They rode in the meadows, side by side, just to feel the wind in their hair. The Edain were brave, loyal, irreplaceable for keeping their lands safe. But Angaráto would have never died for them. For any of them. And he would have died for Náro ten thousand times, if he asked it.

 

"My little realm in the South, like you so quaintly call it, was yours too," Findaráto argues. "I know you held the siege for me. I know I should have been up there more often, with the two of you, and with your son. I was grateful. I still am. But you know as well as I that their love could have not been woven into the Music. Do you not see? He would have had to leave you to care for her and their children. Without him, the siege would have fallen, and you would have died years before your time."

 

The siege had fallen anyway.

 

"Do not lecture me about the Music! It could have been greater yet, had Náro dared to love. Had you not scared Náro off like the skittish thing that he was. Had you stood by Náro like you stood by Beren and Lúthien. Neither of us knows what could have been, but if by my death I could have offered my brother a chance for happiness, for love, however fleeting it might have resulted, then gladly I would have given my life for him."

 

"He knew this, and your life was not his to take," Findaráto says. "Where were you, when he sought advice? Why did you not tell him this while he still lived?"

 

How dare he, how dare he. Of course he told him, but Náro refused to heed him. 'Never speak of her to me again,' he said, every single time. The last time he'd tried Náro looked so furious it seemed he would strike him, so he never did again.

 

Angaráto gives the cup a light but deliberate push and watches the wine spill on the embroidered tablecloth. The red of the stain extends angrily on the fabric. Findaráto only reacts by picking up the cup and standing it straight again. Angaráto has the irrational urge to fling it across the room. But his anger is not violent enough. Only suffocating. He closes his fists.

 

"Do you have any idea," Findaráto says, his voice strained, "what it was like to hear you die? To hear you both die, when I could do nothing to help you? I hastened North, I rode as fast as I could. When I knew I was too late, I rode on anyway. Maybe there was hope, maybe I was mistaken. But I was ambushed. I should have died. Barahir saved me, when I should have died up there with the two of you, like the brother I should have been for you." His voice wavers, only slightly, before he goes on. "And then one day his son arrived in my realm, begging for my help. Do you know what I saw, when he looked into my eyes? I saw Andreth. She was my friend too, Ango. I saw her looking straight at me. How could I refuse to help? Why would I refuse to help? I lost my people, I lost my realm, I lost my pride, I lost my life for it. But by the Stars, at least I died helping them attain what I was too short-sighted to let my own brother pursue!"

 

The air is very still around them. No more songs from the garden. Only silence. Angaráto cannot quite stand straight, and there are no chairs in the terrace. He leans on the table with his hand. Dizzy after his wrath has deflated. Pained. Findaráto puts the wine away in some cupboard, sponges the mess on the table with a cloth. Some of it splashes on Angaráto's wrist, leaving faint stains of purple.

 

"I wish you'd told us," Angaráto whispers after what seems an enormous pause. "In The Halls. I wish you had told him this. He was so... angry when he saw what... what you'd done. I don't think he knows how to, to f-forgive you."

 

"I should have," Findárato agrees, waves of pain dancing in his grey eyes. "But I dared not face him then. When Arda ends, perhaps, we may make amends. In the meantime, I can only regret."

 

Regret, yes. That is what Angaráto feels, since he was rehoused. Regret for everything. He meets Findaráto's gaze and sees some of his own disgruntlement mirrored in there. He lets out a sigh of vague relief. They are brothers, after all.

 

"I make mistakes, Ango. And unfortunately they seem to carry catastrophic consequences. Maybe that too is a curse, in a way."

 

Findaráto steps away to look into the gardens, likely to find why his young son no longer sings. His silver circlet slides over his forehead as he leans over the railing. Angaráto does not feel like joining him. He rests his weight on a column behind him. He needs to calm down. He should not have spilt the wine. After some time, Findaráto waves at someone, and smiles, then returns closer to the table. He looks uncomfortable. Perhaps Angaráto should leave, this visit was ill-conceived from the start.

 

"I am sorry," he says. "I did not know. I should have known, maybe."

 

Findaráto shakes his head, sadly. "I too grieve for him, although I know my pain can be no match for yours. I always did wish we had another brother who would be as close to me as the two of you were."

 

Angaráto can barely smother the ridiculous rush of satisfaction. Findaráto, a little envious of his friendship with Náro! He never thought of it this way. It truly was out of the ordinary, wasn't it. Their bond unbroken. Even in death, since Angaráto's thoughts often turn to the empty space that Náro has become in his heart.

 

He swallows and averts his eyes. "It is only you and me now," he says, uneasy.

 

Findaráto puts a hand on his shoulder. "And I do not wish to have my only brother estranged from me."

 

Would that Náro joined them one day, to have it no longer be Findaráto and Angaráto staring at each other awkwardly and not knowing how to be with each other at all. Or at least, Nerwen.

 

"We are not estranged," Angaráto says, with a half-laugh. "But I was so angry. With you. I understand better now, but I need to... think. To understand even more."

 

"I had hoped you would come live here and rule with me," his brother says. He sounds disappointed, and his face falls. "Some of your people survived. Not many. But they are here."

 

Ruling? That is the last thing on Angaráto's mind. His people! Not once had he thought of them. What a lousy leader he makes. What would he even say to them? He ought to thank them, at the very least. Enquire how they are, whether they lack anything. Yes, he ought to.

 

Yet living in Findaráto's lands would mean being under his rule, as is the custom in the House of Finwë. His brother is the eldest. He might have to follow his orders, though in the safety of the Blessed Realm this would be more symbolic than practical. Regardless, he has no desire for this, not in the least.

 

"I mean to return to Vinyost. With dad," Angaráto says. "Out of love for him I have kept Náro's fate from him, but sooner or later, I... I will have to tell him. I do not yet know how."

 

Findaráto closes his eyes and looks away. "They will be grieved, both of them. Spare them the most pain, if you can. But do not delay it! The longer they wait for his return the greater their grief will be."

 

"Have you told them nothing yourself?"

 

"Very little."

 

Angaráto looks at him, tilting his head. "Why is that?"

 

"I would like to move on, Ango. Here I have a new realm, my wife, my son. I feel a clean slate. I tire of living in the past, of regretting, of wishing I had done things differently. I do not want to relive the wrongs. Our stories have all been written or sung for everyone to know."

 

Angaráto thinks hearing a song isn't the same as being told the story first-hand, but he does not say so. Findaráto is a different creature. A clean start is perhaps the only way his brother can stop himself from overthinking. And he always does overthink. Angaráto has not yet hit that stage. Perhaps he never will. He would much rather talk until all the wrongs have been set right. If that is possible at all.

 

"I went to Alqualondë, before coming here," he offers, in the same line of thought.

 

Findaráto flinches a little. "What was that like?"

 

The silence had intimidated Angaráto the most, when he stepped in the throne room. Everyone staring. Everyone judging. He had feared his Telerin would fail him. Or that he would choke on his words. Both things had happened, but he had said what he needed to say, in the end. He promised to clear his name. To make amends. To do whatever it took to earn their trust again. At least his grandfather had accepted his apologies. His uncles, too. His cousins had not been quite so receptive. It would take time. A lot of time.

 

"Dreary," he says.

 

"Yes," Findaráto says. "For me too. It is to be expected, I suppose. I should have foreseen a frosty reception after we... abandoned them."

 

Angaráto looks away. It had hurt, though feeling he deserved it had made it somehow bearable. "It will get better," he says. "I intend to return, some time. You know I always loved it there. How else would I smooth the wrongs if I do not return to them?" Forgiveness does not happen overnight.

 

"But that is exactly what I mean. We can no longer go there without being reminded of the past, just as we can no longer walk in Valmar and not be reminded of the same past. At least Tirion is no more, but wherever we rove we are met with questions, or unspoken accusations. It was wearing on me. I mean not to erase what happened, or where we came from, but at some point living among the Exiles becomes easier. We share a common grief. We are still Exiles, you and me."

 

"Perhaps so." Angaráto shrugs. "If I weary in Vinyost, I shall seek you again."

 

"Stay, though. At least for supper. For a small feast. Do not deny me this! Am I not to make merry when my little brother has returned?"

 

Findaráto laces their arms together, a cajoling smile on his lips, and Angaráto laughs. Yes, he can do supper with his brother.

 

 

 


	6. Of the living

The orchard extends for miles and miles, in long rows of perfectly symmetric trees, their silvery leaves trembling in the wind. The fruits wear the branches down, and some of them have rolled on the ground. Mostly apples. Sweet scented apples, and Angaráto rubs his hands together to chase the thought of stealing some of them.

 

"Are you sure it's here?" Lótë asks, pressing closer to him. She is wearing lilies in her hair today. Angaráto feels like kissing the top of her head.

 

"Yes," he answers. "They said this is Yavien's orchard. But her workers must have left for the day. I told you, we are ridiculously late. Country-folk live by another schedule."

 

"You mean, not the schedule of idle courtesans?" His wife laughs and pokes at his ribs. "But this was not my doing. Who was unwilling to get out of bed? 'Please, please, one more,' " she teases, imitating his voice earlier that day, and Angaráto plants a kiss on her mouth to shush her.

 

She came to find him in his father's House one day, covering his eyes from behind to make him guess who she was, but he needed not to see her to know it was her. Lótë, at long last. They'd been too young when they were wed, too impatient. In this second life loving her has become a long, delicious pleasure that he draws out as long as he can, in their new chambers of Vinyost. It almost saddens him that they had to die to know this bliss. Lótë kisses his brow to wipe away his frown whenever his thoughts turn dark. Less often, now. She changed everything. Sometimes he even wonders if they could not beget a child again, the daughter they always longed for but never had the time to make when the Unrest broke out.

 

"Oy!" says a voice coming from the orchards. "What is your business here?"

 

Angaráto pulls from the kiss reluctantly, but smiles when he recognises Yavien's thorny voice. "Good evening!" he shouts, waving at her to come closer.

 

A stiff grin breaks the farmer's stern features when she recognises him. "Well, well," she says. "The Younger Prince. Well met!"

 

"Well met, Yavien. I told you I'd not forget your kindness," Angaráto says.

 

Yavien stares at his clothes, at the circlet on his head, then casts a hesitant glance at Eldalótë. She smiles more genuinely. "I truly did not expect you to seek me."

 

"I had this made for you," he says, and pulls out a hand-sickle. The handle is engraved in gold with his father's sigil, with a flower in the centre to mark Angaráto's. The smith added some silver, too, and the blade curves with just the right angle for pruning fruits. "As a sign of my gratitude for driving me to Vinyost and enduring my ignorance. And for the apples," he adds with a laugh.

 

Yavien gasps at the sight and steps back, eyes wide. "This blade," she says, disbelieving, not daring to touch it. "I've never seen one so fine. How did you know?"

 

"My lady wife here was a student of Vána," Angaráto says, and slides a hand around Lótë's waist to pull her even closer. He does not tire of looking at her. He trails off, mesmerised by her smile.

 

"I grew an orchard once," Lótë says. "In happier days. Your trees are beautiful. Tall and healthy. Congratulations."

 

Yavien straightens, visibly proud. She reaches out for the scythe and runs a hand on the thin blade, then on the engravings of the handle. "You should not have," she says, "but I thank you for this. And you are welcome to visit the orchard if you so wish, my lady."

 

"Some other time. Tomorrow, perhaps?" Lótë glances up at Angaráto. "We are expected back this evening but I would gladly visit again. You must have so many fruits here. The flowers must be quite a sight."

 

"Thirteen kinds," Yavien says. "But you are too late for flowers."

 

Angaráto read all about it on the harvest reports his father handed him. He sat one afternoon in the terrace to go over the pile of paperwork on Arafinwë's desk. By the next midday he had placed seals where seals where needed and filed it all away in the proper shelves. He's been doing it ever since. It reminds him of Dorthonion, when he was lord of so much land. The remaining Ñoldor have not spread out too far from Vinyost, it makes the overseeing much easier. And Arafinwë looks at him with such gratitude that he cannot think of anything he'd rather be doing.

 

"I like her," Lótë says on the way back, as they walk hand in hand through the empty fields.

 

"Mm," he answers. "I knew you would. My father is lucky to count her among his followers."

 

She gave them a basket of pears to take to the Palace, her orchard is perhaps the most fertile of the realm. In less than a year Angaráto has become his father's right hand. He runs his lands. He sits with him in council, though Arafinwë begs him to hold his tongue until everyone leaves. The last time they travelled to Valmar someone called him the Crown Prince, and Arafinwë did not correct them. No, Angaráto will not weary of Vinyost any time soon.

 

Lótë strokes his arm and rests her head on his shoulder without slowing her pace. "Do you still miss Náro?"

 

The question startles him a little, but he answers, "I do. Every day."

 

He told his parents, in the end. It felt wrong to be the son whose earnest manner was valued in council when he hid this from them. He had expected tears. Arafinwë and Eärwen exchanged a glance full of sorrow and told him, 'We know.' Later, his mother told him they'd shared a dream since his brother's birth, hazy images that made little sense until the songs from Beleriand allowed them to piece the visions together. After his death, too, they dreamt of him, alone in the Void. They knew.

 

Angaráto squeezes his wife's hand. "But I have you now."

 

And his mother and father. And Ingoldo, in his own Ingoldo way. Náro's absence is no longer a secret, and speaking of him does lessen the grief. He may tell his parents what his brother was truly like in Beleriand, what he thought, what he feared, how he smiled. Sometimes it is as if Náro were sitting there with them, with a scowl on his lips when Angaráto does not paint him in a flattering light. Like always.

 

They wait for Artaresto the way his parents wait for Nerwen to stop being stubborn. They stroked his fëa in The Halls, he and Lótë, but their son was too broken, too guilty to heed them. 'One day,' Lótë always says. One day he may be returned to them, and who knows, his daughter too with him. The boy still lives, Arafinwë met him in the war. He is a King now, a High King. Angaráto's house is a royal house in Beleriand, and he never knows whether to feel pride or distress over this. But if Finduilas shares Náro's bitter fate and The Door does not open, at least she will keep him company, until the End. Until the day they are all reunited, and Arda remade again.

 

He brings Lótë's hand to his lips, breathing in the scent of lilies before placing a soft kiss to her fingers. Yes. Angaráto is of the living now.

 


End file.
